


The Great Fiesta

by RileyAnnaOlson



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Sun Also Rises
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Love Triangles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 22:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7073650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyAnnaOlson/pseuds/RileyAnnaOlson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking up immediately where The Sun Also Rises leaves off; when Brett and Jake meet Jake's old army pal Jay Gatsby. Co-authored by Alina Villa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

We drove in silence for hours, until the street lights came on and I couldn't recognize any landmarks. “Dinner?” I said. Brett sighed, which meant yes. “Café del Toros,” I said to the driver, who grunted obligingly and turned us around. He didn't make small talk, which I appreciated. Some of these Spanish taxi drivers thought you paid them by the word instead of the kilometer.

The Café del Toros was on the second floor of a rickety old mill. I hadn’t been to that old place in years, but they baked the best bread in Madrid. It was crowded with over-perfumed people in various states of drunkenness, but the building was still standing. The maître d’ led us to a table in the center of the cafe and offered to bring out wine.

“Two bottles, please.”

Neither of us were very hungry, but I ate anyway. The bread was fantastic. Brett watched the married couple talking and laughing behind us and drank wine.  
“I'll go home and marry Mike,” she said after they took their check and left. “He'll be glad to hear that. I'll telegraph tonight. That's what I'll do.”

“How long have you been engaged?” I asked for something to say.

“Oh, ever so long. I forget.”

“You were supposed to be married once already, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Last year, or the year before?”

“Year before.”

The candles were burning down, and the maître d’ glanced at the few of us still sitting. He wanted us to leave. To hell with him. Our train didn’t leave for two hours. “Another two bottles of wine,” I said to show him. He frowned and disappeared. Two more parties trickled out of the cafe. These new bottles were better than the last. Brett seemed to think so, anyway. She finished one and a half before I’d drunk two glasses, and by the time her glass emptied for good she talked much more freely.

“You know what I think?” she said, her round face glistening from the heat. “I’ll have the grandest wedding anyone’s ever seen. The reception will last all weekend - doesn’t that sound just fine? And I’ll dance with every man there. You’ll be there, of course. You’re my best man.”

“Isn’t it Mike’s best man?” I asked.

“He won’t care. He’s an old dear.”

I laughed, harder than I should have.

“What?”

“He isn’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Isn’t a dear.”

“What is he, then?”

“He’s an arrogant, loudmouthed ass, and you know it.”

“You’re getting pretty damned excitable over all this. I didn’t know you cared.”

“Damn it, Brett, I don’t care what sort of games you play - or who you play them with-”

“Awfully big of you, darling.”

“-but this isn’t play anymore. He wouldn’t think so, either. He’d make you settle down.”

“See if I would! I’d leave him.”

“Great, then there you are back where you started. And what’s the good of tying yourself to an ass like him, anyway? What’s it get you?”

She stopped, and her mouth quirked up. I noticed she was crying. She stood, and I followed her out onto the terrace. Someone was playing a mandolin below us, an old tune I recognized vaguely as having something to do with a lover killed in a duel. It was awfully cheerful. Brett rested against the railing, and I put my arms around her. She made a hell of a picture, just a golden outline in the streetlamp-light.

“I’ve postponed the wedding, you know.” She wiped her eyes.

“I know.”

“Lots of times.”

“I know.”

“At first I thought it was my fault. The divorce took too long, I wasn’t ready to settle down, I wanted to have my fun, those old stories. I’m damn glad I did, too. I met Cohn - though he wasn’t too fun afterward - and that dear old count, and...and Romero.” She leaned against me. “It’s not me, Jake - at least not all me. He’s not interested.”

“Like hell he isn’t. Have you heard him talk?”

“I don’t mean in me, I mean at all.”

The music trailed off. “What?”

“I found out a few weeks before the first wedding day. I went to take a shower and there they were, the two of them, in our bed. I never took the other man for the type, but you learn something new every day, I guess.” I whistled. “It was so funny, I couldn’t stop laughing, really I couldn’t. Mike doesn’t know I know, isn’t that even funnier? But I can’t really marry him, can I? I go on and on, keeping up appearances because I can’t figure how to break it off, but I can’t marry him. It wouldn’t feel right.” Her voice broke.

“It wouldn’t,” I agreed. The air felt calm, and fireflies started winking at Brett. Everything that moves, I thought with a chuckle. Except Mike Campbell, apparently.

“But how am I to break it off with him?” she said. “He’s been so good to me, and people will ask questions.”

“Make something up. Isn’t there one big beastly thing he’s done you can’t stand?”

She began to cry in earnest. She pressed her face into my shirt, shuddering against me like she’d shake herself to pieces. I touched her hair, and she looked up at me with a face like death itself. “Jake, darling.”

“Yes?”

“I’m dying.”

The mandolin started up again, this time with a violin above it, higher and angrier.

“Aren’t we all?”

“I've got something dreadful. I thought it had gone away, but it’s back, and so much worse. I’m going to die.”

“You’re not. You can’t.”

“Don’t be grim about it, dearest. For me. Let’s never speak about it again. I shan’t die today, at any rate.”

“What do we do in the meantime?”

“Hold me, darling.” I obliged. She was burning up, or maybe I was just cold.

“It’s Mike’s fault, is it?” I asked, half afraid to bring it up.

“It must be. There. The one, big, beastly thing I can’t stand.”

A scrubby young waiter peered out and informed us that, if it pleased señor and señorita, the cafe was now closed, if we would be so kind as to vacate the premises at once, gracias. We would be so kind. In the absence of any taxis, we strolled down the boulevard, Brett’s head on my shoulder and her hand gripping mine. We had missed our train.

We stopped next to a fountain supposedly shaped like Saint Mary de Cervellione. “Brett,” I said. My voice echoed, too loud for the empty plaza. “Make a list of all the things you want to see in the States. How soon can you pack once you get home?”

“How long a trip?” she asked. She was a damn good-looking woman when she smiled.

“As long as your list. I need to get out of Paris, anyway. I hate the damn town.”


	2. Chapter 2

The lovely sea air Brett was so fond of got sickening after a couple days, and you could only promenade around the deck in a straw hat so many times. I took refuge in the ship's bar, ignoring people, and Brett kept to her cabin, doing the same. She was quieter than usual. At the dock in Paris she'd posted a letter to Mike explaining very kindly she didn't expect to see him ever again, and she wished him luck in all future endeavors, romantic or otherwise. We hadn't mentioned him since.

New York didn't arrive soon enough. It smelled homey, the scent of five million people crushed into one little concrete gridiron. Brett lost her hat in the pushing of the crowds as we walked down the gangplank. I promised her a new one as soon as we got settled. Until then, we found a bar. It wasn't easy; this damn Prohibition fad was the worst thing to happen to the States since the Civil War. Still, liberal tipping and some suspicious characters led us to our destination, and before we'd unpacked our toothbrushes, we were sitting on round stools in a smoky barroom, sharing a bottle of whiskey and poring over Brett's list.

"The opera is an absolute must," she said, smiling over my shoulder at a starstruck bar patron.

"You hate opera."

"It'll be thrilling to be seen there. I wonder if they'll announce us."

"Statue of Liberty."

"The Met."

"The Museum of Natural History. Really?"

"I want to see dinosaurs before I die, Jake." She leaned back and smoothed out her linen skirt. The door swung open several times in a row, the bell over the door clanging insistently.

"As you wish. Museums tomorrow, then, and statue and opera day after that."

"And today?"

"Today we relax, eat pizza, get our land legs back, then drink and lose them again."

"Cheers," she said, and took another shot.

The bell rang and seven or eight girls in matching dresses burst in, giggling fit to give me a headache. Actresses, maybe, or showgirls, more like. Before they even ordered drinks, they said a long hello to everyone in the bar. The tallest one said hello to me. She was a tanned, pretty girl with bright eyes and impressive hips.

"Hello yourself," I said.

"Have we met?" She pulled up a chair, ignoring Brett completely.

"You never know. I meet a lot of people."

"Clever. Buy me a drink?"

"Honesty!" Her friend had a lower voice and a crooked hat. "Save some for the rest of us! We've got to go!"

"Coming, Chaz." She stood. "We're entertaining at a Gatsby party tonight. See you there?" I laughed and took a drink, and she blew me a kiss and disappeared with her little friend.

"Charming," said Brett. The corners of her eyes wrinkled as she laughed.

I didn't reply. Gatsby wasn't a name you heard every day. New York sounded like his kind of hideout, though. As the showgirls left, I caught the redheaded one by the arm.

"Who's this Gatsby?" I asked.

"No one knows," she whispered, as if she was sharing some juicy secret, "only he's only the richest, most eligible bachelor in the state of New York, don't you know, and he throws _the_ most delicious parties!" Her style of talk was grating. "You're not from around here, are you? Everyone who's _anyone_ goes to a Gatsby party!"

"Jay Gatsby?"

"Sure!" She giggled and followed her cohorts out the door.

"What was that about?" asked Brett.

"I know this Gatsby fellow from the war days. What do you say we investigate this famous party of his? He's always been the generous type. He wouldn't mind a couple extra guests."

"Sounds smashing, darling." I paid our tab, but as I moved to leave, Brett fell against the table with a cry.

"Hey! What's this?" I helped her to her feet, and she clung to my arm.

"I'm alright," she kept repeating. Her face was dead white. "My legs went numb." I held her where we stood until she shifted her legs one at a time and let her weight back onto them. "I haven't got anything to wear to a party." Her laughter was breathy.

"You want to go to the opera and you didn't bring a cocktail dress?"

"I added the opera to the list on the ship."

"We'll go shopping, then."

"Oh, darling, don't be cross with me."

"I'm not cross. It's your holiday."

She kissed my cheek, then something flickered over her face. It was the first time she'd kissed me since I picked her up from Madrid. It was gone before I could tell if it was regret or something else. "I had the shops on Fifth Avenue on the list, too. Right after the dinosaurs."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By Alina Villa

The sun was setting and Brett and I called a cab to Gatsby's house out in West Egg. Brett sat very close to me in the back of the cab. She appeared almost a bit impatient to get there. The sun was almost set and while we sat there together I couldn't help but stare at the world passing outside the window. The air was ashen. The buildings were dark and fuzzy. It was all grey and hazy. It was quiet in the car. After a few minutes Brett and I pulled up to the big house with blazing yellow lights and music echoing from within. I paid the driver and opened the door for Brett.

"You ready?" I said.

"I'm always ready, darling," she replied, stepping out of the cab.

The music sounding from the house as we approached was resonant of the sounds I heard on the streets of Paris. Debussy perhaps. Inside a mass of light came from all directions, and strangers were dancing. There was mass of people and a pit full of oboes. A spindly man with a tray in his hands offered us a drink. I took one and nodded. Brett did too with a grin.

"This is quite the party, isn't it, Jake?"

"Drinks on the house aren't too bad, especially during a prohibition."

The music had shifted to an upbeat swing. People filled the dance floor, drinks in hand.

"While we're here, why don't we try to find the host? You said you knew him during the war?"

"To hell with Gatsby, how about a dance?"

I grabbed Brett by the hand and we joined the other couples on the dance floor. It was hot and crowded. Brett looked lovely in her new dress. Scarlet with her hair let loose instead of slicked back like she normally had.

We got lost in time for a bit until she and I were nearly breathless.

"I think I'd like to meet this army friend of yours. It'd be a good break from dancing."

"I think I could go for another drink."

"We will find your drink and then your friend."

Brett was already a sociable woman and the party was to her liking. Men in tuxedos offered us drinks and informed us there was to be a feast later. She and I searched for Gatsby but he was nowhere to be found. We took a step outside and a man was standing alone. He was staring across the bay at a little green light. As we approached him he quickly turned toward us and said dinner was being served soon. He walked us inside and when the party lights illuminated his face I recognized him as Jay Gatsby.

"Gatsby?" I said. He was taken aback by me saying his name.

"I'm sorry, old sport, you caught me a little by surprise there, and what is your na-"

Brett had caught his eye and his words seemed to stumble in his mouth.

"My name?" I said. He was examining both Brett and I. He met my eye and then exclaimed, "Jake? Jake Barnes? It's mighty fine to see you again, old sport!" He gave me a robust pat on the back. "What brings you out here?"

"My friend Brett here and I are traveling around a bit and we are in search of a good doctor for her. Lady Brett Ashley, meet Gatsby. Gatsby, Lady Brett Ashley."

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, your ladyship," he said, gently taking up Brett's hand and planting a light kiss.

"The pleasure is all mine" she said smilingly.

"You said you were looking for a doctor? Well, old sport, you've come to the right place. I've got a good friend who's a doctor and he should be right inside. Will you be staying for dinner? I could introduce you."

"Dinner would be lovely."

"Absolutely. I'm famished."

The party was winding down and a good number of guests had vanished. The place was still alive and music still playing. The smell of the catering wafted through the house.

"Excuse me while I go and freshen up," Brett said.

"We'll wait for you right here," I said.

Gatsby and I stood there while what was left of the party shuffled into the dining room.

"You said that was your friend, correct, old sport?"

"I suppose you can say that's so."

"How come she needs a doctor? She looks spry."

"She's come down with what we've been told is a terminal illness. She and I are trying to have a good time while she's got time."

"I'm sorry to hear that. If there's anything I could do for the two of you, let me know." When Brett returned Gatsby escorted us to the dining room. The table was set with a cornucopia of food. Turkey, chicken, steak, lobster, shrimp and a number of fresh bread and vegetables. The wine that accompanied the dinner was smooth and suited the meal well.

"Your friend is an awfully handsome man. You wouldn't mind if I-"

"Brett," I sighed, "are you sure that's the best idea?"

"One go won't hurt anyone, dear."

It might, I thought, but I kept it to myself.

After dinner the party resumed and Gatsby introduced us to an older gentleman in a black jacket with a peculiar scarlet lining. He was tall and thin with curly grey hair and large sunken eyes. He spoke to us in a thick Scottish accent and said he would be glad to assist Lady Brett Ashley in any way he could.

The time was well past 2 when I realized Brett and I hadn't made accommodations for the night.

"Gatsby," I said.

"What is it, old sport?"

"It's time for Brett and I to retire for the night. I've got to find us a hotel. Could you call us a cab?"

"I've got plenty of room, you two can stay here for the night."

"That would be delightful," Brett said.

The guests were all gone and Gatsby was showing us to our rooms.

"Here's your room, old sport," he said, gesturing to a double door with dull brass handles.

"Thank you for the accommodations." I turned to Brett. "I will see you in the morning."

After I closed the door behind me I heard Brett ask, "You wouldn't mind giving me a little tour, would you, darling?"

"Of course not."

As I undressed and the first light showed through the far window, I couldn't help but think of the comment Brett made at dinner. Gatsby had never been that type of man. I still recall the woman he would talk about back in our time of service. I lay there awake, listening to the faintest of noises in the now-quiet house.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By Alina Villa

I woke up around noon and found a clean set of clothes set out on the trunk at the foot of my bed. I put the clothes on and descended from my room to where I thought the dining room would be. When I arrived I saw Gatsby and Brett already sitting down, nearly done with their eggs benedict.

"Good morning, Jake."

"It's a pleasure for you to finally join us."

"We thought we'd let you sleep in, dear, you seemed exhausted after the party."

The glow of daylight through the large bay windows couldn't quite match the glow coming from Brett and Gatsby. I was famished and Gatsby called for my breakfast to be made. The three of us sat there together and fresh coffee was brought out for me as I waited for my breakfast.

"It's good seeing you again, Jake. Brett tells me you've been doing well."

"Life has settled into its routine. Traveling a bit doesn't hurt. I'm looking forward to seeing some more of the countryside and whatnot."

"Feel free to stay as long as you'd like." Gatsby made a quick glance to Brett who was somewhat anxious sitting there.

"I think I'll take a walk," said Brett, standing up.

"Would you like any company?"

"That's quite alright, dear. I will be right back."

The closeness between Gatsby and Brett irked me. Many times in the past have I come to Brett's aid in a way. I didn't accompany her on this trip for her to sleep around with even more men.

"Jay," I said, "this place you've got is mighty fine."

"I'm glad you think so."

"You should probably know what Brett and I are really here for."

"And what is that, old sport?"

"Well, assuming Brett let her walls down for you, you should know Brett has acquired a life-threatening STD. It's likely she gave it to you as well." Gatsby sat uncomfortably in his chair, unsure of how to respond. "We came looking for a good time and someone who might be able to help her. If she is dying it'd be wise not to get tangled up in her life." At that moment Gatsby stood and one of the butlers walked in with my food.

"I'm quite sorry to hear," was all he said before leaving the dining room.

After I finished my breakfast and my coffee turned sour in my mouth, I found Brett sitting outside on the dock.

"What would you like to do today, my love?" She appeared lost in her thoughts. "Brett?" I said, reaching out to her shoulder. She jumped a little at my touch.

"Oh. Good afternoon, Jake. I thought you could take a day to relax. Gatsby invited me to go boating with him later today. I thought it might be a fun time."

"Alright, I'll spend some time in the city today. You two have fun."

I left, fairly disappointed and a bit too angry with Brett. I knew she was trying to live the only way she knows. In New York I found myself walking around aimlessly. The streets were hot and the pavement dirty. I walked up and down Fifth Avenue and eventually found myself in Central Park. The trees seemed dirty too. The air smelled like cigarettes and grass. I'd been walking for hours and decided to find myself a place for lunch. I found a small cafe on Park Avenue and picked up a newspaper. A young man with a thin mustache and slicked back hair approached me and handed me a menu,

"Is there anything I can get started for you?"

"Coffee, please."

"Alright," he said with a fake smile, "and I will give you a few minutes to look over the menu." He left swiftly and gestured for a waitress to bring me coffee. The waitress was a plain young woman but wore bright red lipstick and had cropped brunette hair. She smiled at me with coffee pot in hand and placed my white ceramic mug on the table. She carefully poured my coffee,

"Thanks."

"No problem," she said with a quick smile.

I sat there for some time, having picked up a newspaper I sat there pretending to read. Trying to read and thinking about Brett and Gatsby.

The rest of the day passed with little excitement. I walked down crowded sidewalks and sidewalks which had only me on them. Past shiny storefront windows and cheap restaurants windows flooding the atmosphere with their greasy odor. The streetlamps were beginning to turn on and I hailed a cab to take me back to Gatsby's. Sitting down I hadn't realized how much my feet hurt from all the walking.

Gatsby's house was dark and much quieter than the night before.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Dollar fifty," the driver said in a husky tenor. I patted my pocket for my wallet and found it missing. Without trying to show too much panic I patted down all my pockets and my wallet was nowhere to be found.

"I can't find my wallet, but I've got money inside. Do you mind if I run in?" The driver glared. "I will be right back." I ran inside the house and found Brett sitting in the foyer.

"Good evening Brett, you haven't got a dollar fifty on you I could borrow? I seemed to have misplaced my wallet." She didn't look at me.

"You told him."

"What?"

"You told Gatsby about my disease."

"Brett dear, I've got a cab waiting outside and the meter is running."

"Why would you do that, Jake? What good does that do you?"

"I haven't got time for this. Do you have money? If not, do you know where Gatsby is?"

"Damn it, Jake!"

"I'm just trying to find money for the cab!"

"Jake, Gatsby and I really hit it off and now he wants nothing to do with me."

"Maybe that's for the best."

"I'm a big girl, darling, I can make my own decisions." Gatsby had our luggage brought and I realized I had the rest of my travel money in my suitcase. I started for my room, "Maybe we really aren't too great together. Gatsby said he was willing to help me get medical attention."

"Well, it looks like you don't need me here anymore." I could feel my face burning. Brett had a bit of a slur in her voice and I noticed a few empty bottles of wine near her.

"You know I need you, darling."

"I think you're better off without me." I went to my room and grabbed my suitcase and money. When I'd come back down Brett was gone. I hopped back in the cab and told them to take me to the train station.

"Grand Central? No problem."


	5. Chapter 5

I made it to Philadelphia at three in the morning and turned down the porter's offer of getting me a taxi to a hotel. I left my luggage in the station for later, then wandered until dawn. Philadelphia is not so pretty as New York, but it's cleaner and smells more like buildings than sweat. I explored city streets, not sure whether I was retracing my steps and not sure I cared. I saw no one but the homeless boys asleep on front steps and pigeons poking around beneath storefronts. The sun rose over the gray city and turned everything pink. I thought I might like some breakfast, and set out to find a coffee shop.

After fried eggs, buckwheat pancakes, and three pots of coffee, I pulled the list out of my pocket. The top of the list was the Liberty Bell. Why did Brett care about a rusty old bell? What the hell. It was her holiday.

I stood at the door of the bell's display room for five minutes, then walked away.

I stretched out on the grass in front of Independence Hall for a few hours. I must have dozed off. When I turned over the sun was high in the sky and men were ringed around the lawn hawking everything from pretzels to American flags. I dodged them and returned to the station for my things. A bunch of suffragettes were picketing.

"You, sir!" An old bird with too much beak and dull feathers tried to get me to sign a petition.

"Je ne parle pas anglais. Casse-toi." She looked good and shocked. I don't think she even knew what I said.

The porter asked my name. "Barnes."

He handed me a telegram. "From New York."

Nice try, Brett darling. We've played this scene before. I stuck the paper in my pocket and sauntered away.

The Grand had a swell restaurant on the top floor with views of Philadelphia all the way round. I ate hors d'oeuvres and sneered at society dandies for a good while, ignoring the advances of one of the nicer class of prostitute. When my room was ready, I left a dime on the bar - I would have tipped more, only there wasn't actually any alcohol. The bed was nicer than anything in Spain and most of Paris, too. God bless America. I laid out without taking off my shoes. Something crunched in my pocket. I thought it might be a candy wrapper until I remembered the telegram. I cut my finger opening the paper.

COME BACK AT ONCE STOP LADY ASHLEY DYING STOP ST FRANCIS HOSPITAL ROOM 108 GATSBY

What a stupid joke. Must be a New York thing. You wouldn't make a joke like that in Paris, no matter what else you might say to a fellow. That was too sick to be funny.

I was out of bed and packed.

This is what happens when you let a man into your confidences. He takes your friend, your friend who has a disease that's killing her, and tries to be funny. Mike, for all his faults, would never do such a thing. Even Cohn. To hell with Gatsby.

I told the taxi driver as fast as possible. We ran over a dog.

Brett should have listened. If she hadn't been so damned stubborn about perfect, wonderful Gatsby, she could have been in Philadelphia right now and none of this would have happened.

The train took two hours. I shouted at four people who talked too loudly and only felt like crying once.

I watched the New York skyline draw itself on the horizon, gray lines up and down like an erratic heartbeat marked out in broken pencil.

The door to room 108 at St. Francis Hospital had hardly closed behind me when I cried out, "Gatsby, what the hell-"

His head was in his hands. A sheet covered the figure in the bed. I tore it back. Brett, her face gray and afraid, lay stiff as a railroad tie, wearing the dress I bought her on Fifth Avenue. "How long ago?"

Gatsby didn't look up from his hands. "About an hour. She asked for you in her sleep, old sport. It was the last thing she said that we could understand."

"What happened?"

"I had another little party last night. She seemed angry still, and I suppose she drank too much. I should have noticed, but I was attending to my other guests. By the time I came looking for her, Jordan told me she'd been unconscious for an hour or so and they'd been letting her sleep it off. When we couldn't wake her, I drove her to the hospital myself." I nodded. "Would you like me to leave you two alone?"

"Yes." He slunk out with his tail between his legs. I didn't hear the door close.

Brett wasn't the dying sort. She'd been dying for weeks and it couldn't get her; she was too strong. Figured she'd have to do it to herself. To hell with you, Brett Ashley. I kissed her forehead. It wasn't cold yet.

We'd had a damned good time together.


	6. Chapter 6

I stretched out on the beach with my shirt spread beneath me. The breeze cut through the humidity all right, and the little kids were in school. It was a perfect set-up. Some girl gave me a fancy old rock that morning as a souvenir of Miami. I used it as a paperweight to hold down Brett's list. The whole first page was crossed out. After sunbathing, she wanted to try New Orleans food. I thought it sounded exactly like French food, only dirtier, but what the hell. It was her holiday.

No one on the beach paid any attention to the grown man crying over a damn checklist.


End file.
